Why’s it so damn hot, though? It’s almost November.
“Are you okay?” Janelle frowns as I get in the driver’s seat.
“Sure, not like last night how?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t wonder about why I’m driving when Nigel has to be with us tonight. I feel like a fool knowing the truth is that I want the time alone with her. My so-called work on the weekdays keeps me in the city or flying about, and last night, with Nigel driving, she barely spoke at all on our drive to the party.
“Ummm,” she draws out the word, not picking up on my, what, nerves? No. Not picking up on whatever the hell’s gotten into me. “Let’s see, instead of tasteful and chic, it’ll be hokey, loud, probably mediocre food, not an open bar but still everyone will somehow get super drunk. Oh and ridiculous costumes, either the tacky or the slutty variety.”
“You really do hate this town, eh?”
She short-circuits for a second. “N-no, I…I’m being a jerk. Again. A lot of the town is fine. Lovely, even. It was just hard sometimes, growing up here.”
“Can I ask why?” I keep my voice light, though I find myself a bit desperate to know more about her. Two days we spent together on the couch last weekend and aside from every detail about each individual housewife on every Housewife show on air, she shared very little.
I did learn she’s a good nurse, if begrudgingly. She didn’t let me lift a finger after the mug debacle in the kitchen. One look at her totally undone, no make up, tight nipples visible through that shirt, I lost the ability to function.
Bloody embarrassing.
With little teasing, she put on a sweatshirt and shooed me out of the kitchen. She was on top of my meds like she’d maybe made a spreadsheet and a set of alarms. Actually, not maybe. I’msureshe did. She got me water, tea, food and hot and cold compresses with only pretend irritation. In fact, I think she enjoyed taking care of me.
And, shockingly, I enjoyed sitting still for two days. Mostly to hear her scathing commentary on anything and everything that came on the screen in front of us. I don’t think she used the same insult twice.
When she stood up and started pacing to explain some conspiracy between a famous actress and her on-screen counterpart who also directed the film, and how the whole film let down some entire fandom and drama upon drama, with beautiful, unaffected Janie somehow equally angry at all sides including the media and even the fans, I couldn’t stop laughing. Neither could she, by the end of the saga.
We spend a good deal of our time together laughing, actually. And not always at my expense.
But to finally hear something about her childhood, her past, I’m eager. So, I keep my eyes squarely on the road.
“Why?” She repeats back to me.
“Well, I’ve always thought growing up in a small town would be idyllic. Safe, cozy, lots of people to know you, help you if you need it.”
She snorts, “The know you part, for sure. But that means they also knew every time mycrazymother breezed into town like a freaking category five hurricane.”
“She couldn’t have been that—”
“She’d steal from the general store, Ben.”
Ben.
“Actually?”
“Yes! And then try to blame Gran!”
My eyes go wide as I glance over and she goes on, “Yes! Sometimes she’d have a new boyfriend with her, sometimes she’d hook up with someone in town. She was unbelievably pretty but just as wild. And I mean actually unwell. Gran tried to get her help, meds for bipolar disorder probably, among other things. And she offered to get Mom into rehab with money shedidn’t have, only for Mom to try and paint Gran as the bad guy. Saying Gran was keeping Jack and I away, crap like that. Then after Hurricane Jacqueline finally left town, there were always whispers and side-eyes about the three of us she left in her wake. It…it sucked.”
“I’m sorry.” I put my hand over hers on the center console and she startles, but doesn’t pull away.
“Jack and I were so ready to get out of this town. So we did. We just left Gran and barely looked back and now,” her voice cracks.
I don’t push her to finish her sentence. I twist my hand so I can link my fingers through hers. She doesn’t flinch. In fact, she tightens her hold on my fingers for a beat.
She’s about to pull away, to be embarrassed, but I don’t let her.
“Don’t you think it would make you feel a bit better about it all if we, you know, made out?”
“Aaaand we’re done here.” She lets go in pretend anger.
“Just a little bit, kissing only.”
